


The Color Spectrum

by shoutz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Fall of Overwatch, Fighting, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Fall of Overwatch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Self-Destruction, Soldier Enhancement Program Era, and i think i never will, i have no idea what else to put here, we're just doing everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-18 02:38:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11864904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoutz/pseuds/shoutz
Summary: A non-chronological, slightly anecdotal view of the (probably canonical) relationship between Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison, through the lens of The Color Spectrum.A series of ficlets inspired by the albumThe Color Spectrumby The Dear Hunter, featuring a few gratuitous headcanons.





	1. Never Forgive, Never Forget (Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interrogation, and a dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Never Forgive Never Forget (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=filTeTUFcmc)

_[Never Forgive Never Forget (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=filTeTUFcmc) _

 

It is a dance, really. An art. Gabriel will preach that fact to his dying day.

The only light in the room flickers down on him, like something out of a bad cop drama. Blood drips from a split in his lip, falling to the ground with a small _plink_. Another gash stretches across his temple, streaming blood down to the collar of his shirt and soaking into his tactical gear, giving the black a gruesome sheen. _My dance partner._

He hasn’t said a word thus far, only grunts and screams in pain, but that’s not unusual. Usually they start off cocky, sure of themselves, and then break after a bit of work. These Talon grunts are much harder to crack open without…excessive collateral.

Gabriel’s job, the things he does, they aren’t exactly legal. That’s why they call it _Blackwatch_ , isn’t it? They take the ugly spec-ops missions and interrogations that would taint the pure sparkling white poster boy and his Overwatch. No questions, no complaints, they get it done. Perfect for people with cold, dark hearts like Gabriel's has come to be. However, brutal as it all-too-often is, there is an undeniable beauty to it all.

“Who are you? Who are you working for? What are Talon’s plans? Where are they hiding? What are their numbers? Who is their leader?  Where will they attack next?” It is a pattern. Follow the rhythm, go through the motions, just like a dance. Gabriel always hopes one answer will lead to another, but it's rarely that simple.

He always starts by simply asking. To him, it's important to give them a chance before he uses other means of making them talk. Each time he receives a myriad of responses: defiant silence, muttered curses, _shouted_ curses, threats of violence, madness, unending loyalty. It isn’t until the second round of questions that things typically get interesting.

He asks one question after the other, following each with a punch to the face, the ribs, the stomach. Sometimes he pulls a fingernail, sometimes he takes a few teeth. Par for the course. With this one specifically, Gabriel can tell they just roll over him in waves, like white noise, in one ear and out the other as the strikes grow harder and harder, punctuating his questions with pain. Gabriel won’t admit it, but this prisoner’s tolerance for pain is quite impressive. He just might have to get more creative this time.

Gabriel is almost thankful for the opportunity.

“It’ll be called Blackwatch. The public won’t know of it, of course, but people on the inside must have something to call it. You understand.” Gabrielle’s voice still echoes through his head on occasion, reminding him of his role here. “Covert ops. Prisoner interrogations. Odds and ends. Your specialty.” _While Jack leads armies and shines in the tabloids._

When Gabriel accepted the job, something within him knew it was a death sentence. It wasn’t like he could say no; his hands were tied. Refusal meant dismissal, and dismissal for someone as high-ranking as Gabriel meant the end. They wanted to see him crash, to see him burn, to see him lose it all. Or perhaps they simply didn't care for the fate of one soldier trying to do his job. Little do they know that Gabriel fucking Reyes doesn’t deal in half-measures. It was damned from the very start, bound to its fate by crooked plans, destined to end in fire. He could have turned a blind eye to it all, but if he is going to fail, he will do it like he does everything else: exceptionally well.

Gabriel understands, really. He gets it. Over time, his emotions turned to iron, to steel, to diamonds. It’s an easy job for someone who is already used to the lifestyle. Back in SEP, he was usually sent on special operations _—_ Gabriel used to think it was a race thing, the typical hyper-aggressive man of color, but over time he learned how to deal with it all. _Say yes. Obey. Do your job._ At any rate, he’s just damn good at his job. His tactics are methodical, precise. He knows what to do and what not to do, how to get out of particularly tricky situations, and his impeccable record makes Gabriel one of the most popular among the men whose military ‘achievements’ shouldn’t even be brought up. The job is perfect for him, and the inevitable chaotic, destructive conclusion is perfect for Gabrielle.

Gabrielle knows. She must have known what she had signed up for when she split Overwatch. The commanders _—_ Ana, Jack, Gabriel, Lindholm, Wilhelm, Liao _—_ they never had any plans for spec-ops. It had never been necessary. Yet, with Talon’s emergence and consistent meddling, the UN found it pertinent to form special operations, just in case. They told Gabriel he would still work with Overwatch, still go on missions and help the cause on the front lines, but in reality he hasn’t even seen Jack Morrison in what feels like weeks. It feels like it shouldn’t matter, yet something nagging and empty inside of him makes it incredibly difficult to forget.

In a way, Overwatch is his dance partner _—_  the United Nations plays the music, keeping time with the tempo as it accelerates into oblivion. Except with Adawe, he is on the other side of this dance, and the stakes are much higher.

“Just give in, you’ve got nothing to lose.” Gabriel's voice doesn't fall on deaf ears this time. The prisoner chances a glance at his captor's face as he shakes out his hand following another unrelenting punch to the torso.

Blood spatters onto the ground next to him as the prisoner spits it out. Gabriel would get someone to clean that up later, along with the rest of whatever mess this one ends up leaving behind. Then he looks up, giving Gabriel a crooked grin, fearless and foolhardy and feral, coated in a sick red sheen. It’s not the first he’s seen and it won’t be the last.

“Well, I guess I would never know,” he says, simple and elegant and dripping in arrogance. Gabriel wants to laugh, wants to bring Adawe down and let her hear the words for herself.

“We’re alike, you and I. We just don’t know when to quit.” Gabriel punctuates his final word with another punch to the gut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is quite a leap for me. I'm not so used to publishing the things I write, but I felt a special need to share this idea. This whole thing is based off a wonderful piece of art by a band called The Dear Hunter called The Color Spectrum. One day I was listening through the whole album, all 36 songs of it, and came to the realization that each and every song was about these two soldiers. Thus, I decided to write them all. COOL beans hope you like it and if not? Who knows maybe another color will be your cup of tea.
> 
> I'm on tumblr @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com) if you wanna chill.


	2. Filth and Squalor (Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A seed of inspiration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Filth and Squalor (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wUmzZmngxP4)

_[Filth and Squalor (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wUmzZmngxP4) _

 

Jack has learned over time that anything organic dies eventually.

It all rots -- either from within, or from without. Including people, including super soldiers, including Overwatch. _Including Jack Morrison._

Once upon a time, Overwatch was a cure for the curse of Omnic violence. Once upon a time, Overwatch was a force for good in the world, a beacon of hope. People looked up to the shining soldiers, the heroes of an age that desperately needed them. Before the egos, before the infighting and secret operations and private loyalties. It just felt right. But now, it’s all turmoil, all madness. The beginning of the end.

Every time the higher-ups strap on their blue uniforms and get together for a meeting, to make some world-altering choice around a big round table, Jack can’t help but think about all the things they used to be. Back when Ana was still alive, back when their job was easy, back when Gabe…

He hearkens back to a time before the press, before the lull in the Omnic wars that caused the vacuum of power that threatens to swallow him whole.

His mind digs up memory after memory, parading the glorious past so Jack can drown in the nostalgia. Memories of Jack and Gabriel side-by-side, memories of successful missions, memories of peaceful flights to and from areas that needed help, a sleeping head resting on his shoulder as he reads the mission details from a glowing blue tablet. It makes Jack's heart clench and sink, dense as a stone in a winding river, because those memories are just that: memories. He could only pray the memories stay pristine, stay fresh in his aging mind.

It doesn’t do him any good to think about it now. The ones who are left over, the broken few, they are at the helm of this ship now. Amari, Liao, Lacroix, all good soldiers and all gone. All that remains are guilty hands guiding the world into the next era, ushering peace or destruction or both. Jack is the figurehead, but it’s all a facade. They've given him a hollow authority; in actuality, there isn’t much of anything under Jack’s complete control. At most he gets a mission here or there, gets to decide who goes and who stays, attends debriefs and classified information given under the watchful eye of the UN. He turns a blind eye, pretends not to notice while Overwatch crumbles beneath his feet. Jack almost finds himself missing how it used to be, back when he had control, back when he could share the burden with his brothers-in-arms. Back before the UN decided to sentence Gabe to a slow, painful death at the hands of an organization that was meant for an inevitable annihilation. It's only a matter of time.

Sometimes a treacherous idea worms its way into Jack's head. Sometimes he thinks the only way to fix it is to go to the press, to tell all. But even that would bring down the careers of hundreds of good soldiers, people who deserve to keep their jobs.

Jack knew that the moment Overwatch started expanding beyond its limits would be when it’d all fall apart, and now he can see that it's certainly on its way, and fast. His conscience keeps telling him to tear it down, to start again, to do it _right_. No Blackwatch, no overstepping boundaries, no fucking United Nations or Gabrielle Adawe. Just helping people, as it was always meant to be.

But, no. That isn’t the case anymore and Jack doesn't have the authority to make things right anymore. All he can hope for is damage control.

Overwatch is a sinking ship, and Jack can’t help but feel like he is tethered to the hull, thrashing for a breath, waiting for the end to drown him once and for all.

Waiting to tear it down, and start again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite, but the song doesn't lend itself much to concrete plot. I'm afraid a lot of people are going to think that this whole super dark and gritty and annoying mode of storytelling is going to carry through the rest of the series but uhhhhh don't worry it won't. The last one in the Black series is the one that started it all and THAT one I'd say is the sort of vibe you'll get with a lot of the series.
> 
> And if you've been listening to the songs for these chapters and they're not your jams I HIGHLY encourage you to listen to more from other colors. One of the most important things to me about this album is how dynamic it is and how each color is so different from the others and when this gets further on its way I hope I can really show that.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com) if that's your jam.


	3. Take More Than You Need (Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream, and a reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Take More Than You Need (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi2bfYaFhCs)

_[Take More Than You Need (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oi2bfYaFhCs) _

Every mission has Jack on the brink, fighting to stay alive after throwing himself headfirst into the thick of it all. He technically isn’t even supposed to even go on them anymore, that’s why he has subordinates, but sometimes he just needs to let off a little steam. _For old time’s sake_ , he tells himself. _It’s not a death wish. Not entirely._

Whenever he does this, the others get worried, anxious, concerned. Reinhardt cautions him, _I’ve got the shield for a reason, Jack, get behind it!_ Angela simply fixes him with a displeased frown, examining his wounds after each mission and setting them so they might have half a chance to heal properly before he went out on the next one. And Gabriel…

...doesn’t care, Jack guesses. Not since the formation of Blackwatch. Certainly not since the damned promotion.

Adawe tore him away from the one thing he could rely on, and in response, Jack lost all sense of self-preservation. He's the head of Overwatch, sure, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be reckless with his own life.

He gets careless. He runs into the line of fire, he under-analyzes risks, sometimes he analyzes them correctly at first and simply doesn’t care about the consequences of a few mistakes here and there.

Part of him always tries to talk himself out of it, of course. He's fully aware of the myriad responsibilities that would lie unattended should he perish, and the thought of it all spikes his anxiety to new levels. He's fully aware of the power imbalance he would leave in his wake, and that Lena or Angela would take over in his place. He's fully aware of the stress they would endure, the hardships of being thrust into a position of such high authority with such short notice. He's fully aware of the closed-casket funeral his parents might attend — closed, because no way he’s envisioned his own death has involved a corpse worthy of presentation. Truth be told, he doesn’t really know if they’re alive anymore, nor the rest of the family back in Indiana. He can’t bear checking in on them, not since the promotion. Not since his life started falling apart.

Some things make it better, things other than the missions and the downtime between them. Through time and trial and error, he's managed to figure out the precise amount of alcohol he has to consume in order to get inebriated in any capacity. Since then, Jack can’t remember the last time he went to bed sober. Nor can he remember a night when nightmares didn’t invade his sleep, whether he was drunk or not. Nothing seems to help those; not Angela’s medication, not Ana’s old tea recipes, and the missions only serve to make them more horrific, pushing the gruesome imagery to new heights. Sometimes, the nightmares are more cryptic than horrifying or nauseating. And all-too-often, those cryptic dreams feature none other than the man who started it all, the one to whom Jack had urged, “Take more than you need.” And so he did.

He took enough to hollow Jack out, until there was nothing left of him but a martyr complex wrapped in a super-soldier's body.

One night in particular, the dream is even more convoluted than it's ever been in the past. Usually, Gabriel doesn’t talk — he only stands on the outskirts of whatever bizarre landscape Jack’s mind throws onto the canvas. When that’s the case, Jack can’t pay attention to much more about the dream than the man in it: the man he gave everything for, the man who's been there since the very beginning, the man who promised he'd be there until the very end. He always was — and still is — fairly distracting.

This time, when Jack sees him, Gabriel takes a step forward.

“You give,” he takes another step, “and you give,” even closer, “and you give,” another step closer, now crowding into Jack’s personal space. He can almost see the smoke and amber that usually makes its presence in Gabriel's eyes, can almost feel the warmth of his body close to Jack’s, can almost lean forward and _give in—_

“Until there’s nothing left to give.” He’s staring at Jack now, on equal footing, his gravity as inescapable as a star. “Nothing but a hole, and the sin of the charitable,” he finishes with an eerie finality to his tone, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Jack can’t say anything in response. What is there to say? _You’re right, I give too much, I should stop being so careless._ Even if he tried, Jack isn’t sure he would be able to stop, not after everything. There's always more to give, always more to do. It’s almost addictive: the burn, the ache of over-exerted muscles, the itch of rapidly healing wounds as his skin weaves itself back together. The rigor leaves him spent, exhausts him into the next job. After all he's been through, he likes feeling empty for once. It helps him get past the rest of the bullshit Overwatch puts on his plate or in his head.

“Just as long as there’s enough to go around.” Jack manages to find his voice after a long silence between them. He doesn’t know if it's the right thing to say, he never really knows the right thing to say. Especially around Gabriel.

Whatever's happening in the background of the dream fades into empty, black nothingness, leaving only the two of them standing alone in the void. Only Jack and Gabe, as it always should have been.

Gabriel laughs, low and rolling like an incoming tide, like a storm on the brink of pouring its contents onto the earth below, and it's enough to make Jack’s chest ache dully behind his rib cage. “I’ve been around long enough to remember why I don’t give anymore.” His voice fades into a whisper, a fleetingly gentle breath against his ear despite Gabriel still standing tall in front of him. Then he turns, and walks into the darkness surrounding them. Jack only has time to ruminate in the thought for a few seconds before he's thrust back into consciousness with a start, sitting up and panting in his dimly lit quarters.

That next morning, as the sun crests the horizon, Jack leaves for a mission in Numbani. It's nothing major, nothing life-threatening, but perhaps Jack can change that. Perhaps a few rogue Omnics will be waiting to tear some new, angry holes through his body. Jack tries to shake the thought as he heads towards the jet that would take them there and back.

Lena's busy making small talk with Torbjörn, distracted from the arrival of her commanding officer. Too distracted to see Jack go pale as bone as he spots Gabriel standing on the outskirts of the landing strip, arms crossed over his chest.

Jack stands motionless for a while, watching Gabriel, his own thoughts drowning out the noise surrounding him. _Is this a dream?_ No, dipshit, Gabriel is real. But why would he be out here? Why now? Just… standing there, alone. Watching Jack— no, he can’t be watching Jack, he’s too far away. Jack can’t really tell. It certainly _feels_ like Gabe’s eyes are boring into him, drilling holes into his consciousness, but that could just be Jack’s imagination. Maybe he's just checking outthe jet, or making sure his aircraft comes in after they take off, so he can get ready for whatever mission he has next.  _Pull yourself together, Morrison._

“Hey, Commander, you ready to roll out?” Lena’s sing-song voice pulls Jack out of his trance. He doesn’t know how long he had been staring at Gabriel, didn’t know how long he’d just been standing there like a dumbass when there was a mission to begin. He stands up straighter, rolling his shoulders back and hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he mumbles as Lena turns and walks towards the jet. "Let's go." He follows behind her as she climbs the steps, trying to hide how shaken he feels. If it shows, no one comments on it.

She gets into the jet first, and Jack takes the opportunity to look back. Gabriel is still there, unmoved. Perhaps he isn’t real after all. Jack almost makes a mental note to ask Angela about some anti-psychotics, before Jack sees Gabe raise a hand in a motionless wave towards the ship— no, at Jack? After a moment of hesitation, Jack raises his hand in return, a halted goodbye.

When he gets into the aircraft, no one asks about what's happening or what's taking so long. Jack wonders how deeply they understand, if they understand at all.  _Do you see him too? Do you know all that’s happened between us?_ The questions burn sour on his tongue, heavy, as ragged and broken as they've become. Words turn to ash and ash turns to stone, setting his jaw closed tight. The questions die before they reach the air. Instead, he watches the ground — and Gabriel — disappear beneath the clouds, and prays for peace of mind, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is more akin to what I'm looking to do with the rest of the series: little snippets of their relationship. Which means plot and dialogue and interactivity.
> 
> Tumblr is [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com) holla @ me


	4. This Body (Black)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A death, and a rebirth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This Body (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FX3AY8SeUpo)

_[This Body (Black)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FX3AY8SeUpo) _

 

“Oh, my god…”

Gabriel Reyes, by some strange turn of events, finds himself face-to-face with a light. A single, pulsing light barely edging the outskirts of his senses, yet seemingly the only thing towards which his focus will gravitate. It reminds him of the all-encompassing Light everyone always says they see when they die. It's dimmer than he expects, dim enough that he can look straight at it without squinting. Not that damage to his vision particularly concerns him, all things considered. He wonders briefly if he even has eyes anymore.

“Oh, my god…”

They're the last words he'd heard before he slipped into this in-between, this strange place where he doesn’t feel the pain that should kill him, or at the very least immobilize him. Had it actually killed him? It would explain the light, the strange numbness, the feeling of being suspended in time. It feels like he can go slow, like he can ease along at his own pace with no consequences. It doesn't scare him as much as it should.

“Oh, my god…”

The voice edges into his subconscious, masculine and distinct, filling up the empty blackness around him and threatening to swallow him whole. It sounds familiar, like an old friend or an old lover or both, like a reason to run away from the light rather than be drawn towards it. It sounds like something he would try to get back home to if things had gone differently.

But... No. There's no other way this could have ended. Gabriel only wishes he had been able to realize it before the world fell apart.

The light starts shrinking, pulling itself further away, swallowed by darkness and smoke and a sharp chill that penetrates bone-deep. Something clenches tight in his stomach at the sight.

 _No_.

He runs after it, but it's like trying to swim through honey, sweet and suffocating and not fast enough. His extremities feel strange, like they'd just woken up from being asleep, like static on an old television, like pinpricks underneath his skin. A strange disconnect between his body and mind scrambles his senses, made clear in the way his muscles refuse to listen to his brain. His utter lack of control is more terrifying than anything he’d seen in all his time in service before, during, and after the Omnic Crisis. But no matter how hard he struggles, no matter how much he puts those SEP muscles to work, he can’t get to the light before it disappears completely, leaving him alone in the dark with an ashy taste in his mouth and a sinking feeling in his gut.

By the time Gabriel is able to open his eyes, the pain has returned to his senses, worse than before, worse than he could have ever imagined. He struggles to feel a single unbroken bone, a single part of his body left unburnt, a single emotion other than raw  _anger._

“Your body is a temple, Gabriel. You need to take better care of yourself.”

A female voice wretches itself from his memory, prim and proper, like a lilting song in his head. Gabriel swears she’s right there next to him, speaking her warning into his ear. When he concentrates hard enough he can see her clear as day, silhouetted and holy against the smoky sky, looking almost like a real angel with that Valkyrie suit they made her. It stirs something in him, wretched and weary, seducing him with its angelic tone, begging him to close his eyes again and _give in_. Maybe Angela had been right all those years ago; maybe he should have taken better care of himself. What would she say now? _Oh, my god…_

Had that actually happened? Was she there in Geneva when the explosion tore the base to the ground? He tries to remember, tries to think of anything but the look on Jack’s face the second before it all went to hell. All the raw hurt, the pain and the longing and the desperation, spilling from those beautiful Bambi blue eyes that never failed to pull him in with the strength of a black hole, framed by a face that was light-years past mere hurt. He can’t lie to himself: he felt the same, he still feels the same. Hurt doesn't even begin to cover it. The whole encounter had felt like Jack was ripping parts of Gabriel's heart out, little by little, until finally he tore the rest out and set it aflame.

Judging by the smoke and ash around him, choking the air in a thick, impenetrable haze, he might have done just that.

He pushes some of the rubble to the side and sits up, ears ringing, eyes blurry and struggling to see past the smoke surrounding him. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, trying to focus on something other than Jack “boy scout” “prom king” “pain in the ass” Morrison. His memory pulls him back to Angela, to the halo surrounding her as she loomed over him, Caduceus staff in hand, trying to stitch him back together again with her nanomachines. The memories start flickering into his consciousness.

She had been there, right before he entered that strange, dark abyss. She had tried to heal him. _Your body is a temple._ He huffs a grotesque laugh, sounding like something out of a horror movie as his face cracks into a morbid grin. He can feel the gore that had been caked onto his face shift, crumbling away in a pool of dust and death.

“This body’s not a temple, it’s a prison.”

His voice sounds like someone else’s: evil, maniacal, almost otherworldly in its bizarre, low cadence. Black smoke billows from his lungs as he speaks, spilling on the ground before him only to dissolve moments later.

“And every wall inside here is on fire,” he continues, louder and more sure of himself. He feels like a piece of Hell made its home inside of him and the devil decided to throw a block party, like fire is the only thing he's ever known, like he's turning to cinders with each passing second.

He stands, shaky at first, getting his bearings. Smoke reaches in wispy plumes towards the sky from the rubble around him, the shattered remains of the Switzerland Headquarters that he had called home for so many years. Not a soul is in sight as the moonless sky bears down on him, illuminating the world with nothing but starlight and the fires still scattered among the wreckage. His limbs still feel strange, like they belong to someone else, but he can get over that if given the time. He looks down at himself, past the smoke, but he doesn’t look even remotely human. His body is the color of ash, smoke and bits of festering blackness dissipating from his skin with each pulsing heartbeat. His clothes are singed, clinging to his smoldering flesh by what few small tatters are left. But he's alive, above all, and so incredibly  _furious._

Despite the pain, despite the alien feeling anchored in his skin and bone, despite his weird smoke and weirder voice, Gabriel can’t say he minds his body burning. Sure, it's hard to maintain a corporeal form, it's hard to control the parts of his body still left alive after whatever happened to him, but those are problems that can be dealt with in due time. He feels good beneath it all, like he's being cleansed from both inside and out. _God, do I need that._

He had tried to mend things, tried to do what he thought was right before it all came to a boil. Angela had told him to be patient, so he was. Ana had told him to listen more, so he did. Jack had told him to fuck off, to die for all he cared anymore. Gabriel supposes, in the end, he had done that too.

He clenches his fists and screeches towards the sky, sounding marginally less than human in this new form, seething with boiling energy as thick black smoke rolls off him in waves. It calls to order the disobedient pieces of himself that try to escape and dissolve with the rest. It feels _good,_ like a catharsis, helping make himself whole again. 

It feels so good that he almost doesn’t hear the voice behind him, small and resigned, saturated and dripping with fear and regret and sorrow. Three small words that he has heard too many times today, coming from the man he once loved. The man who made his newfound fiery anger spike to new levels. The man who so had elegantly stolen his heart and then fed it to the wolves.

“ _Oh, my god…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was the first or second one I wrote out of the 36 (yeeeesh) songs in the album. It's also one of my favorites. I was originally just going to post only this as a one-shot or potentially a two-shot (the other one being a piece from a song further down the line that I already have done), but then the rest of the songs on the album inspired me so this became a series. Hope you enjoy, we're starting Red next so get ready for some Fun Times.
> 
> Another note of import: there are two versions of The Color Spectrum album out there. One of them just has one song for each color, and then the other (the complete collection, I think it's called) has 4 songs for each color (including the 1 for each featured in the smaller album). We're doing that one. The long one. I'm in this to win this.
> 
> Tell me your headcanons @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com)


	5. I Couldn't Do It Alone (Red)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I Couldn't Do It Alone (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuD8a_IcPlY)

_[I Couldn't Do It Alone (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuD8a_IcPlY) _

 

Tonight’s training is unlike any other.

They don’t really know why, and at this point it doesn’t really matter. The blood in both of their veins runs hot, boiling with pent-up energy waiting to release itself in sparks, in jolts, in neural impulses that tell their buzzing bodies what to do and say and feel. It awakens something within both of them that they just can’t seem to tame. But, it’s a moot point. Neither of them truly wants to tame it.

The soldiers in the enhancement program receive their shots on Fridays, recover from them over the weekend, and train from Monday to Thursday. It’s a simple routine, one that makes it easy for them to stop caring about the lacerations and contusions won after a day of rigorous training. Their injections boost their immune systems enough to wipe their bodies clean by the next Monday, anyways.

Sparring matches are the norm when it comes to training outside of normal drills and routines. As such, most of the SEP soldiers find themselves out in the in the expansive training hall looking for a brawl with which they can occupy their Thursday nights. Sometimes tournaments are arranged, sometimes they all run drills together, and sometimes they just fight for the sake of fighting.

Tonight is one of those fighting nights.

The recruits don’t have assigned partners but Jack and Gabe always seem to seek each other out, always seem to gravitate towards one another like two bright stars on the verge of collision. It’s like breathing. It’s like fighting. It’s natural.

What’s even more natural is their ruthless competition, their inability to give up to the other. Some days their need to outdo each other is bad enough that they stay on the mat until well past lights-out, feeling their bodies burn down into their bones, bruising their bodies right down into their souls. All for the sake of friendly competition, they tell themselves.

Tonight, it’s even worse.

Gabriel is on a whole different level. He feels more fit than ever before, feels more alive than ever before, and as such, he fights better than ever before. It sparks a new vigor in Jack, a new determination to fight back despite the fact that the “boy scout” hadn’t seen a fight in his life, on television or in person, until he joined the army. He feels this urge to win that hadn’t been there before, the need to prove himself in spite of the less-than-savory odds. And Gabriel is always more than willing to oblige.

He stands back now, watching Jack’s body fall flat onto the mat. It’s long past the point in time when the others get bored and leave to spend their Thursdays as they please. No one else gets to see the look in their eyes, the heaving of their chests, the smiles they can’t seem to wipe from their faces.

“Ooh, that _had_ to hurt.” The words and the tone don’t bite, not really, and Gabriel doesn’t mean for them to. They’ve hit their mark though, and he can see it in Jack’s eyes as he begins to stand, sparking electric through his crooked smirk and the sheen of sweat covering his skin. He’s untamed, almost predatory, and it sends a new sort of adrenaline coursing through Gabriel’s body, setting his skin and his bones ablaze with the overwhelming desire to _touch_ and to _take_.

“You’re shaking again.” It’s not shaking, not really. It seems closer to a tremble, but even that doesn’t seem to cover it. Trembling and shaking imply exhaustion. The tremors in Jack’s muscles come from the thrumming restlessness and boundless stamina coursing through Jack’s body, twinging his muscles until he takes Gabriel’s hand and rights himself again.

Jack pulls his shaking under control and they continue their brawl. After a few well-aimed knees and punches, Gabriel manages to catch Jack in a brutal clothesline, but it doesn’t quite hit its mark. Jack tries to duck away to avoid the arm but he isn’t fast enough; instead, a bony edge of Gabriel’s forearm cracks into Jack’s mouth, sending him backwards off his feet and onto the mat.

When Jack sits up Gabriel can easily see the busted lip, the dark trail of blood beginning to run down his chin. Gabriel fixates on it. He wants to taste it, wants to smear it across his own lips with a bruising kiss.

Instead, Jack wipes it away with a forearm. It smears a gory trail across his chin, but the smirk — that _damn_ smirk — remains as smug and smarmy as ever. With all that fire in Jack’s eyes, Gabriel begins to realize that he _wants_ him. Mottled bruises and abrasions color his biceps and forearms (and doubtlessly his chest beneath his shirt), and a low, feral part of Gabriel wants to add more, wants to leave bruises and marks that won’t be wiped clean by the injections they have tomorrow morning. He wants to mark Jack with teeth and lips rather than fist and foot.

It must show on his face, because the smirk on Jack’s lips could cut glass. He begins to stand once again, getting ready for another bout of attacks, and who is Gabriel to refuse a man his fight? Especially not one so desperate to get wrecked as Jack fucking Morrison.

They dance around each other, back and forth, but Jack’s found this new surge of ruthlessness this time. He barely gives Gabriel time to block one attack before he’s swinging with another, managing to find some new font of energy with which to fuel his determination.

After a few minutes of relentless barraging, Jack manages a solid kick to Gabriel’s ribcage, enough to send him off his feet skidding across the mat. It’s not the first time Jack’s managed to get Gabe off his feet, not by a long shot, but this time he’s absolutely _beaming,_ past the sweat and the red scab splotching over his lip and the smoldering vigor jumping out of his eyes. A piece of Gabriel melts as he looks up, admiring the view from a new perspective, one filled with heat and desire.

Jack reaches down to Gabriel as their chests heave in time with heavy breaths.

“I knew you had it in you.” He takes the outstretched hand and uses it to stand, but doesn’t let go. A certain look crosses his features, one that Gabriel can't quite decipher. It precedes this softness that looks incredibly out of place on the supersoldier, but Gabriel happens to think it looks  _gorgeous_ on this specific supersoldier.

“I couldn’t do it alone.” Jack’s voice is filled with adrenaline, with the rush of a fight well-won, but he seems done for the night.

Which is why Gabriel takes the opportunity to sweep Jack’s legs out from under him.

He falls with a thud and Gabe is quick to follow up by climbing on top of Jack, bracketing him in place with thickly muscled arms.

Jack, though surprised, doesn’t seem to want to move. All he does is fix Gabriel with that fucking lopsided grin, fire still bouncing untamed in his eyes. Heat radiates off him in waves while the unspent energy manifests itself through more trembling, buzzing through the muscles and the bruises and the scratches marking their way across his body like a map with no legend. Gabriel wants to taste them all, wants to lick the salt from his skin and set his pulse racing all over again. For entirely different reasons.

“You’re shaking again.”

Jack’s smirk widens, showing teeth. Like an invitation.

Gabriel takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Red is so spicy. Love it.
> 
> Tell me how bad I am @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com)


	6. A Curse Of Cynicism (Red)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mission, and déjà vu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Curse Of Cynicism (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjwXydz52MU)

_[A Curse Of Cynicism (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FjwXydz52MU) _

 

Jack's pupils blow wide in fear, in an attempt to absorb more light particles bouncing off what could very well be his ultimate demise. His accursed cynicism gets the better of him as he balks. "Gabe, we're not—"

"I don't wanna hear that shit, Morrison. I'll cover you while you run, and then you cover me while I run. Simple." Gabriel gestures with his gun. "Keep your eyes on the prize.”

Gabriel tugs Jack behind cover out of the line of sight of some straggling Bastion units. His eyes flick up away from Jack’s, focusing on something behind him, so Jack turns to follow his gaze. Sure enough, their drop location is about 30 yards away, nice and pretty and out of sight of the units that would tear them to shreds if they moved from their current position. The way there, however, is a different story.

Jack's heart beats steadily in his chest, counting out a rhythm far too fast to follow. He wonders if Gabriel can hear the adrenaline, the fear propagating throughout his body.

"Whenever you're ready, Prom King." Jack spares a glance back to his partner. A familiar smug catches his eye as Gabriel lifts his rifle, readying himself.

Jack fills his lungs with air, shoulders rising and falling with the deep breath. He uses the small moment to finally recognize the sights around him, but it isn't pretty. The once vibrant city of Santa Fe, New Mexico is in ruins around them. Buildings have toppled in on themselves, old abandoned vehicles and various bits of debris litter the streets, providing a small amount of cover from the numerous Omnic units that lay in wait in the streets.

That's not even including the bodies.

The first one they had come across was hardly anything at all. All that was left was a big dark stain in the road and two legs sticking out of a chunk of cement. Jack had to fight back the bile in his throat at the sight.  _What if that was me? What if that was someone I loved?_

As they crossed through the city, searching for survivors before the military came to blast the city off the map, the body count rose dramatically. The streets were strewn with poor folks who couldn't make it indoors in time, and the rubble covered the bodies of the poorer folks who _did_ make it inside, but weren't fortunate enough for that inside place to be an evacuation center.

Gabriel nudges Jack in the back with the butt of his gun. Jack blinks once, twice, filling his lungs with much-needed air, then breaks into a dead sprint across the clearing.

Gunfire covers the sounds of his footsteps, both from directly behind him and to his right, where the Bastion unit waits for them to come out of hiding. He kicks up clouds of dirt and dust as his feet hit the ground, adding to the other puffs erupting from the impacting bullets.

He makes it twenty yards.

A bright spot of warmth erupts in the muscle of his right calf, and the next step he makes with it sends him stumbling. He has barely enough time to shout a curse before he's falling face-first into the dirt. It chokes him, invading his eyes and nose and mouth and lungs, but all of that takes a backseat to the burning in his leg.

The bullet had only grazed his skin, in one side out the other, but it's his worst fears realized. Jack Morrison is about to become another nameless, faceless corpse in the abandoned city. His mother and father don't know where he is. His sisters don't know where he is. Gabriel—

Only a few seconds after Jack skids to a stop in the dirt, the gunfire picks up. Bullets smack into the dirt next to him, and Jack doesn't even have the time to be confused before Gabriel has his arms wrapped around Jack's torso, urging him onto his feet.

Jack blindly makes it to his feet. He puts too much weight on his right leg and groans with the pain, but Gabriel shows no sympathy.

"Come on, just a little..." The voice is distant past Jack's rapid heartbeat, past the blood surging in his ears and his head. But...

He's not dead.

He's not a corpse in the street.

He turns his head as Gabriel drags him further out of the line of sight. A cloud of dust obscures the distance between the Bastion and its targets. Without a visual, the Bastion's sensors tell it to err on the side of caution rather than wasting ammunition by firing blindly.

_Brilliant._

Jack doesn't have the time to voice his thought before he finds his way back into the dirt, sitting propped against a ten-foot wall with his back to the Bastion. They made it. Jack feels a bubble of elation expand in his chest, and then Gabriel's putting pressure on the wound. The bubble pops and an agonized groan tumbles from between Jack's lips.

"Calm down, Boy Scout, we don't have far to go." Gabriel tears off a strip of fabric from his fatigues and starts wrapping it around the wound, tying it tight before it soaks through. All things considered, the wound isn't much for Jack to concern himself with, but...

"You saved me." The words sound dumb coming out of Jack's mouth.

Gabriel doesn't respond. Deft, strong hands ensure the tightness of the makeshift bandage, and Jack tries again.

"Why?"

Gabriel looks up at Jack, finally making eye contact rather than focusing on the bandages. A flash of something crosses his eyes before he pats the side of Jack's knee and stands up.

"Because."

 

\----------

 

"How are we getting through this?" Lúcio's voice cuts through the quiet streets of Eichenwalde. The city hasn't seen conflict since the first Omnic Crisis and the silence betrays its desertion.

"Keep your eyes on the prize."

Three pairs of eyes turn towards the giant stone castle looming over the village.

It took a lot of coercion to get the infamous Soldier: 76 to cooperate with the new and improved Overwatch. But for all that, here he is, teaching a group of fledglings how to secure an area before continuing through it. Lúcio, the plucky musician from Brazil, and Hana, the plucky professional gamer from South Korea. Two  _kids_ trudging through a war zone, following up on a lead that Winston said would hopefully lead them to the Reaper.

Jack has never seen the Reaper in person before, but he's heard enough of the stories. It's really the only reason he agreed to the mission in the first place. The reports, the descriptions... It's all far too coincidental for Jack's comfort. So he's here, now, with the new Overwatch, to try and learn more about this mysterious mercenary. Over time he's managed to become an increasingly problematic thorn in Overwatch's side, complicating matters and asserting himself as much more of a threat than anyone would think to give him credit for. So, they searched and kept an ear to the ground and all their hard work pointed them to the long-since abandoned city of Eichenwald.

The empty streets echo with loud, mechanical footsteps as Hana leads a timid advance in her MEKA unit. They're out in the open, exposed as much as they dare with the moonlight casting shadows over their figures. It doesn't take long to find the building in which Winston said the Reaper was hiding. All roads and paths seem to lead to the great, gray castle that rises tall over the broken city. A battering ram sits idle in front of the splintered doors, but there's not a soul in sight.

"Do you think he's actually in there?" Lúcio almost sounds scared.

"There's a chance." Jack shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "If not, then we just need to keep looking." The question wasn't necessarily directed at Jack but he takes the opportunity to answer anyways, if only to convince himself of the fact. Lúcio and Hana share a look between them but Jack doesn't see it as he presses further through the gaping doorway to the castle.

They're met with a surprising amount of decor for a castle in the middle of a village that's been abandoned for years. Red carpets line the stairway leading through the foyer, wooden banisters line the secondary hallways and balconies, chairs and dressers and elaborate paintings fill the empty spaces, and surprisingly unmarred windows allow a bit of moonlight to seep in and saturate the stone from the outside.

"Lúcio, head to the right and make sure those hallways are empty. I'll search the left. Hana, position yourself here in this bend so you can see both ends of the castle. Keep watch out here for any signs of movement." Jack doesn't wait for a response before he trots off, making a bee-line for the stairs jutting out from behind the wall where the foyer turns a corner.

There isn't much to be seen in the small inner hallways of the castle. Other than the errant overturned piece of furniture or dusty grandfather clock, the passage is barren. It turns a corner, and he can see entryways to the larger section of the castle, but there's more exploration to be done. He makes his way past a few doors and crooked carpets to find a staircase to his right. He takes it.

From the top, he can see the rest of the grand foyer, carpeted in the same dull red as the rest of the larger area. A grand throne sits to the left, along a wall that spans upwards several feet. Light shines in through windows, casting the empty throne in an eerie glow. It's halfway unnerving but Jack Morrison has seen far worse things in his long, exhausting life than a deserted castle. He tells himself this, muttering under his breath as a shiver works its way down his spine.

"Like what?"

_Like that._

Jack at least has the grace not to jolt in surprise, but the gravelly voice cutting through the silence does wonders to knock him out of his contemplative stupor. He turns towards where the sound had come from but nothing but a black cloud remains, thicker and darker than smoke but similar enough in consistency. It flickers and swirls like an unreliable fire before disappearing.

Moments later, a whistling noise floats through the chamber, soft though it harbors something more sinister beneath. Jack turns his head towards it to see a figure in black. He doesn't have enough time to absorb any details other than the two gaudy shotguns in the figure's hands before he's sprinting back down the stairs to find cover.

" _Soldier, what's going on? I hear whistling, is that you?_ " Lúcio's voice crackles through the communicator, and Jack grunts a low response.

"Stay quiet and stay where you are. I found him and he's armed."

" _You can't fight him alone! This isn't—_ " Jack taps the communicator off. This is important and he won't let them interfere.

Jack rounds a corner and heads up another flight of stairs, hoping for a vantage point on his opponent. He makes his way across a balcony and, upon looking down, finds himself directly above the giant throne. From here, he can see the corpse of the armored king who once sat there, crumpled on the ground, broken and unmoving. Now, occupying that spot is the Reaper himself, surveying his surroundings with a long, sweeping glance.

Jack thinks to look for Hana and Lúcio, to see if they can be spotted from here or if they're hidden from the Reaper's view, but when he looks back down the throne sits empty beneath him.

"I didn't know I had company. Nice of you to drop by." The voice trickles low and monstrous from behind. Again, Jack turns to the voice, and before him stands the Reaper.

Clothed in black and a white mask over his face, the Reaper stands nearly as tall as Jack, but none of that catches his attention at first. His eyes are immediately drawn to the plumes of black smoke emanating from his figure, clinging close to the ground before dissipating into nothingness moments later.

Black smoke that he's only seen once before today.

_I am cynical._

Slowly the Reaper raises a gun, leveling it at Jack's face. Jack's too dumbstruck to react, staring at the figure before him with wide eyes hidden behind his visor.

_I have nothing you want._

"What are you doing here?" That same voice, the one that's haunted his nightmares since—

_Take everything._

"You're the Reaper," he says, dumbly, pointedly ignoring the rapid pace of his heartbeat, the tightness of his chest, the way the world seems to wink out of existence around him.

_Don't leave anything._

"And you have eyes. Who told you about this place?" The shotgun is level at Jack's face, steady, but the Reaper's finger isn't resting on the trigger.

_Hollow me._

He doesn't answer. His brain is working, piecing together parts that don't fit, that he knows haven't fit for years upon years. Every time he ever entertained the thought that Gabriel somehow lived, that that mass of  _something_ that came out of the wreckage was Gabriel Reyes, his brain just shut itself down. Like it is now.

_Take the core._

"Well?" The voice from behind the mask is tainted with amusement, the satisfaction of a predator with cornered prey. Jack can only think back to before it all began, before the explosion and the fighting and Overwatch. His chest clenches tight on itself as memories tug themselves free from where they're buried in his mind.

_Leave nothing at all._

"There he is!" Hana exclaims, and a beat later her MEKA is flying forward across the foyer. The Reaper's head flicks over to them before he lowers his gun and grunts low, seemingly to himself. A split second later, he disappears into that same black smoke. By the time Lúcio and Hana make it up to the balcony, the Reaper is long gone, but Jack's hands are still trembling around his pulse rifle.

They question him endlessly, but Jack is barely responsive. His eyes are distant, shadowy, and it's painfully obvious that something _happened,_  something that the others didn't see. Eventually they give up and leave him to his brooding silence, but anyone will tell you that something in the Soldier changed after that mission. If he had been hesitant to rejoin Overwatch before, that hesitance is replaced by a near sickening determination to help the new Overwatch in any way possible. He insists on leading all the missions, works endlessly to build the organization from the ground up, and over time the others begin to see shadows of the man they once knew as Jack Morrison.

Only once did someone think to ask him why.

His answer was one word.

"Because."

_I am cynical, nothing left._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry yall. This past few days have been really busy for me, sorry about the delay. This is also one of the ones I didn't really have written beforehand but I tried and that's what counts.
> 
> Come and chat with me @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com)


	7. Deny It All (Red)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Deny It All (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSB7FCMosw4)

_[Deny It All (Red)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSB7FCMosw4) _

 

Jack, for the first time in years, finds himself praying. Actually praying.

He had never been one for formalities, so it's more of a casual conversation with God. Jack absently wonders if the man or woman or _whatever_  upstairs is truly listening. Even if He/She/They aren’t, it's at the very least a good way for Jack to get his thoughts back in order.

Back in his younger days, when Jack found himself in a little church a few miles down the road from the farm, Sunday morning sleep clouding his mind as he said his amens, it never took long. He never really had anything to pray for back then. Even when he joined the army and the SEP, Jack still never really found a need to appeal to a higher power. Whether by force of habit or because he was just genuinely content, it never took him long to pray.

But now, it takes a while to pray. He doesn't know where to start, he doesn't know what to say. So much has happened, so much has changed, and all for the worse. The only silver lining to the whole mess is that it's all _over_. Blackwatch, Overwatch, all of it in flames and dust.

Jack's not entirely sure what changed. Maybe it was his brush with death, so close that he could feel the grim reaper himself breathing down his neck, could smell the stench of fire and brimstone and death permeating from him, could see him rise from the rubble in a cloud of smoke and ash and scream towards the sky like a banshee—

The sight haunts him, even months later. He's sure it'll haunt him to his grave and then a long while beyond that.

"This whole thing has been such a shit show," Jack mumbles to no one in particular. He is alone, as he has been since the incident. Maybe this sorry excuse for piety is a result of his loneliness. Maybe he's just trying to reach out. Maybe he's going insane. "All of it."

A long silence coats the area in a thick cloud of unsaid words and bottled emotions. The atmosphere shatters with a sigh that kicks up the dirt and dust lingering on the ground in front of him.

"And it's all my fucking fault." Truth be told, he could wax poetic for hours about where he went wrong and what he could have done to fix things. Ten different accusatory thoughts burst forth at once, detailing his mistakes, how he failed, and they're nothing new. Jack's almost figured out how to keep them under control. He barely bites them back, letting the thoughts bump against the back of his teeth while he swallows his guilt.

"I guess there's a reason for all of it, too. There has to be. All this... It can't all be for nothing."  _It can,_  he thinks,  _it can and it is._ "I just don't know what to do next. Every country in the world probably has a bounty on my head. Either that or they pronounced me dead." His gut churns violently. "God, Mom and Dad..." He tries desperately not to imagine their grief, their anguish. They don't even have a body to bury, and for some reason that's the only comfort. They may have seen him on TV after the enhancement program, but the Jack they remember is still the normal-sized farm boy who ran off to join the military at age eighteen.

"But... I can’t stay in the past forever." Jack closes his eyes, willing the flashbacks away from his mind. It doesn't work; willpower is never enough alone, but the last of his liquor is long gone.

“No—  _We_ can’t stay in the past forever. We tried, and it cost us. It cost you your life. It cost me..." Jack shakes his head. Thought abandoned. Moving on.

"You— You used to tell me to deny it all, and it all would go away.” Jack can hear a voice echoing in his head, familiar, telling him just that. _Deny it all, and it all will go away._ “But it didn’t go away, did it?" He wrings his hands, staring down at them as they twine together in his lap. "I don't think it'll ever go away. Not completely, especially now. Our past set us in stone."

Jack shakes his head, trying to get back on track. It's not until now that he realizes he isn't talking to God at all.

"Gabe..."

The word bounces haphazardly in the cathedral. Time and war had not been kind to this section of the city, not even holy places were spared — not mosques, not temples, not even this once-grand Catholic church. Accordingly, it's half-destroyed, covered in a fine layer of dust and rubble and broken bits of stained glass. Once, those bits and pieces might have made a beautiful mosaic of some profound biblical moment. Bits of decorative gold glint from beneath, barely visible in the night's shadow. The clouds looming large overhead don't help the visibility much, either. Jack can feel the electricity in his bones, the promise of an oncoming storm.

"What happened to us?"

His question is barely a whisper, carried away by the wind tangling itself between the few bits of wall that still stand around him.

"You were everything. You stole my heart, you made me yours, you changed my _name—"_

A thought hits him as the words leave his mouth. Like a train, like a bolt of lightning, like his whole world shifting beneath him. He's embarrassed at how long it's taken him to realize. Jack stands from his position on the ground, straightening himself.

"Deny it all, and it all will go away." It’s all he has to do. It seems so simple.

This time, it can _be_ simple.

Now, without Overwatch and the UN breathing down his neck, Jack can do things his own way. He can deny it all. It will go away. His past...everything. _Everything_.

He doesn't have to be Jack Morrison anymore. He doesn't have to fill that role. Jack Morrison is dead.

It's time for a rebirth.

He decides to start by arming himself. He knows where to get the weaponry, and he still has the skill set to do it covertly. This could, by some fucking miracle, work. He knows how to get hands on enough gear to make him effective, make him into what he was meant to be all along: a mercenary. A pariah.

A soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I be real with you guys? My notes for this song were literally "Jack thinking about thos Beans"
> 
> ....Anyways hey, what's up, how's it going, more Color Spectrum for your beautiful day. Sorry I abandoned this mess for a bit, I tried to have a semi-weekly update schedule but life did that thing it does where it takes up all your time and also shits on your chest and kills you twice. But hey, I made some time for my boy to have some Emotions. Sorry for all the introspection. Maybe plot will happen soon hohoho.
> 
> Tell me of your woes @ [shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com](http://shoutzwastaken.tumblr.com)


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